Learning To Drive: Some Wild Rides Living Horror Of Clutch Starts On A Steep Hill In My '65 Beetle

SATURDAY SPECIAL

November 10, 1990|By Dennis Menard, Special To The Sentinel

In the summer of 1965, many aspiring road warriors still relied on their family members to teach them the necessary skills to pilot the great American automobile.

That was my fate, and Dad served (perhaps reluctantly, because he knew what he was getting into) as my first and only driving teacher.

The classroom of choice was the family car - a sleek-looking Pontiac Bonneville hardtop. It was a very nice car with a smooth-shifting automatic transmission, power steering and power brakes.

The car was easy to handle, and I mastered the intricacies of operating it on the open road in a relatively short time. All was well, and Dad's somewhat short temper seemed to be under control.

As is so often the case, however, we just couldn't seem to leave a good thing alone. The major aspiration of my life as a 15-year-old was to own a Volkswagen. I loved those cars and saved enough money from selling papers to purchase a used one just before my 16th birthday. It was a 1965 Beetle, blue with a gray vinyl interior and pushbutton AM radio.

While we were test driving it, though, I realized something was wrong. There was an extra pedal on the floor! My father calmly explained the mechanics of a manual transmission and, based on the ease with which he drove it, I anticipated no problems.

I was absolutely amazed at the simplicity of operating the four-speed stick shift. Even my father was probably a little surprised at my aptitude for it, since I had never shown any interest in mechanical things.

We drove all around town, and my father finally pronounced that it was time to learn to start on a hill. The inexperienced driver that I was did not foresee the horror that I was about to experience, known as Peverly Hill Road.

Dad must have felt that it was a rite of passage to learn this technique on the steepest hill in town, and I am sure he had good intentions. Halfway up the steepest section, he abruptly told me to stop the car. Foolishly, I obeyed. He then briefly explained the technique for getting the car moving again, which, at the time, did not sound too difficult.

I followed his instructions and immediately stalled the VW. No problem, I was just a little nervous on my first attempt. Trial number two was no better, but we both remained cool, calm and collected. I don't know how many more times I tried and failed, but dad's limited patience very quickly evaporated and he began to scream about what I was doing wrong.

The louder the screaming got, the worse I did in trying to get the car moving! Then I began to notice the long line of cars that had stacked up behind us and were beginning to blow horns and show other signs of impatience.

I mentioned to my father the rather significant traffic jam that we were causing, and, after confirming this fact with a quick glance backwards, he jumped out of the car to emphatically signal the cars to go around us. He screamed at each of them as they drove by. Something about the lack of intelligence of his son. Much to my embarrassment, most of the people passing by knew us.

Following a couple of more unsuccessful attempts, my father felt that it was easier to quit than replace a clutch, so he took the wheel and drove home. I felt I would never master this skill and therefore never be able to operate the automobile I had just spent my life savings on. Would life ever be the same?

The answer came the next day. While my father was working, I decided to try a little experiment. Our driveway was not steep at all, but it did slope toward the street, and I proceeded to practice the hill starting technique without the pressure of heavy traffic or my father sitting next to me.

That evening, I asked dad for another chance at the hill, and, much to our mutual surprise and delight, reeled off a series of starts as smooth as a baby's behind. I was truly a driver!